


Shall I Compare Thee

by ElectricKettle (DaLaRi)



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, From the Sonnets, M/M, Nick is the Young Man, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaLaRi/pseuds/ElectricKettle
Summary: A story in three acts, told in three couplings: Past, Prologue, and Postscript
Relationships: Bea Bottom/Nick Bottom, Bea Bottom/Nick Bottom/William Shakespeare (Something Rotten!) (one-sided), Nick Bottom/William Shakespeare (Something Rotten!)
Kudos: 5





	1. Past: Will

It was an established part of their dynamic. In the ways of the greeks, the older lover instructed the younger in the ways of the world, and for them were laid out all the rewards of the youth. It had been lovely and classical at first, and when will would sit struck dumb and just gape at nick when he so much as left a shirt unlaced, or scribble secret furtive sonnets that nick would reread almost to distraction when he could find time, it had worked well enough then. But nick was getting restless, and getting less young. Will insisted that his beauty ‘waxed by the day,’ but nick could pick out a forehead crease when it started. The bending sickle of time snared them all in the end, but only nick knew how much hair was left in the basin every time he washed in the morning. The adoration in will’s eyes was a wonderful constant that nick wondered every day how he deserved, but will still saw him as he’d been when he met him. And if raising a much-younger brother taught him anything, it was that time would bring changes whether or not you were ready for them. And with every morning that they awoke together and will said his same cajoling sad ‘stay with me,’ nick began to wonder if that was something will would ever learn.

It was almost second nature, to clean himself up at the last public restroom before will’s house. He was rarely the only one speedwalking between the basin and the garderobe, and he’d look at them with all the fondness that anonymity allowed him, and then continue those last several minutes to will’s. and will, resplendent and confident, would bring him to his bed and undress him like he was something special, hands fumbling with the laces of his shirt, with the fastenings of his braces, his hands not rushing but fluttering almost with indecision in their reverence. Will undressed him just to look at him, laid him bare before he ever even kissed him, nick the Grecian nude that will so desperately adored. And when will did touch him, always to pull nick to him by his nape, or haul him closer with a hand at his shoulder blade crushing them together, it was always with a fever that settled into the normalcy of the two of them as lovers, the razor wire of the moment of worship enough to nearly cut nick open like a knife. In that space was where will’s writing lived, between the dream and the senses and in the tension where they were held in suspense, and in the long fall up into will’s arms every time he found revelation, too, in his own secular way. he found Art, he found beauty, he found love. And then the rasp of will’s doublet was rough against his chest and his own sure hands found ways to the laces to get will, too, bare to him, often still in hose but doublet gone, jacket off, and shirt loose. Nick had complained one too many times about the roughness of the fabric, and will, in still another act of terrifying submission, had obliged him.

The process in the garderobe always left him mostly still slicked, so when will got himself bare, there was hardly ever a moment before will was seating himself in nick, the slow settling of a keystone into an arch that always made nick buck down into where will was, will always eager to brush himself up against that place of fire and coiled noise inside of him, strike lightning from inside of him as if it was a simple flint. Nick set the arch for will’s arrival, but will absolutely knew how to make his introduction well-welcome.

It was always a slow, self-satisfied torment at first, will driving into that sparking bright place in nick until nick was biting out terrible threats and then will would change it, their welcomes done, finally, with nick the unmannered, wild thing that will seemed so deeply to need to see in him, ‘wild April tempest’s winds set out to frolic.’ Nick didn’t know what will found so enchanting in the way his composure slipped, meeting nick’s every shuddered snarl with a look of revelatory satisfaction. And then will would bring nick, unrelentingly, to the point of despair and beyond. To the limits of what his youth could afford them, nick would wring from him and more, until nick, trembling, overstimulated tears dashed from his eyes, would find the edge of pride and beg him, no more, please, please, please. And then will, reintroducing himself, would bring himself quickly to completion and with the tenderness of a teacher of the classics, would cool and soothe and clean nick, and they would fall into each other, utterly spent. It was a dream of peace. It was a dream.

This time, though, found nick seated on will, seated in nick, will’s feet braced off the edge of the bed as nick clung to him. Will drove up into him at a speed just on the edging side of slow, and mouth buried in the lean line of will’s neck, every jolt pulled a skittering breath or muffled ‘guh’ from nick. He had lost track of time. It was deep in the velvet of the night, and will had teased this first orgasm for hours. Still tingling with the razor wire of perfect overstimulation, nick’s cock had gone soft between them, twitching desperately with every jolted brush of his prostate. There was a low rumble like thunder building, somewhere out from beyond where he could feel, and where his hands arms grasped at will, his hands shuddered and tried to grasp at nothing, settling where they’d landed, frantic as blood rushed through him all at once and, slow pace breaking unexpectedly into a breathless pass of double-time, nick’s mind poured through him like hot electric sand, and he grasped at will, sobbing, yes, yes will, fuck, please, as shuddering, jerking, guttural, he wrenched himself through the needle’s eye and came, hot and splattering, onto will’s chest and neck.

And still will continued. Nick couldn’t help his cries now, little embarrassing hn’s that seemed to punctuate the air with just how good will was at this. After a few more moments, though, will nudged him and dislodged from the dignity of will’s neck, nick gasped at nothing as, still seated on will who was seated in him, will took him from behind. There was something about this position, whether it was the way nick had to hold will’s hair to keep himself upright, or the way will’s cold dry hands felt splayed across nick’s stomach, or even the place of seemingly incomparable depth that this new pose seemed to bring will to in him, a second terrifying precipice hurtled towards nick even at the slower of will’s driving paces. He didn’t hear himself babble but he knew he did as will drove him to the precipice, then drove him off of it.

The long ringing moment after an orgasm’s surprise arrival was a familiar, if recent acquaintance, of nick’s. the fading of the white sand to shadow was no surprise, nor the slow, sweeping stroke of will’s thumb against his stomach as he shuddered, hand in will’s hair having pulled him too into the strung bow of nick’s posture, and when he straightened, will’s voice was almost hoarse in his ear, saying “last time that I let you hold my hair, love.” Nick released him, and the hand braced on the bed went to nick’s chest to hold him back to him regardless. Nick’s knees trembled where they rested on the outside of will’s which had spread in the effort.

“will, I think I’m done,” he said. There was no guile in how spent he sounded. Will kissed the base of his ear, bristle rasping. “then I will be quick, dearest.” it took little effort on nick’s part to be laid out on the bed, and when will drove into him in the quick, brutal way he always treated his own pleasure, the shocks resonated through him like a hammer. It was a bone-deep satisfaction to feel this where his own pleasure ended and his provision to his partner began. Will’s pace sparked through him and, as it always did, he felt his hips give involuntary feeble twitches as will’s breathing got heavier above him. The sound of their coupling filled the space with breath and noise, and when will spilled inside him, it was with a low keening note of held restraint. Nick had never heard him loose it, not truly, and every time wondered what it was. It was a litany, he’d decided a while ago, of all the words too precious for will ever to speak them. The lost revelation of William Shakespeare, unspooling golden thread into the abyss. Will didn’t want nick to be a generous lover, and nick was disinclined to pursue things that will didn’t seem to want. But he wished desperately to know what that sound was, between the end of will’s voice and its new, hushed beginnings. The sated tenderness of will’s voice skated over him like dawn after a moment, and with it the breaking of the spell. Nick had recovered enough to roll to meet his grinning kiss, and sit up to make themselves both decent and ready for bed. The moment ended, as it always did, and on the other side was the return of voice. Nick stood, and will caught him as he wobbled, before continuing over to the basin.


	2. Prologue: Bea

_C’mon nick bottom, stick it in me! Before you lose your nerve._

The wet heat of her seemed to be overwhelming. He hesitated nestled at her entrance, thinking of preparation for a moment and his own routes, the eyes of the other young men. Everything seemed alien, from Bea’s outspokenness to their positioning on the bed. The hot slick of her was disconcerting, and she was right. If he stopped now, he would never be able to continue. So he lined himself up and pushed.

He was right that it was overwhelming. Even in constriction, not even mouths were a match for the pressure that seized him. Every ridge seemed to brush past him beyond his full measure of belief could span it. He must have made some sound, or she did, because with a low guttural _yes_ , bea began to move.

It was all he could do to hold on to her as she rocked back on him, all he could do to keep from rushing to the edge of completion. She made it easy for him to pretend a familiarity he didn’t feel, hands coming to her hips, the motion of her guidance enough to tell him how to pull her back to him, and when. The sensation throttled him, and he thought desperately about how long will would last to bring him to the point of pleasure and beyond. The thought of will was a balm, and drove him into bea with renewed purpose. This was the life will had chosen for them, and his wife deserved better than unenthusiastic cooperation. He was her husband, and he owed her this. The enthusiasm of the _yes_ es when nick began to pull her back onto him with her every backward thrust encouraged him, and he curled his hand so the pads of his fingers lined up at her hips with the sensitive jut of bone, and it was with a low revelatory _oh_ that she realized that maybe he knew what he was doing. She slowed down and, able to breathe through the rush of sensation at least, he angled himself to better drag along her walls with each push, and she shuddered underneath him.

_Hey mister, have you done this before?_

It’s with no hesitation that he says no. it’s true. It’s always been the other way around for him. But he’s been here many many times.

 _Virtual wunderkid you are, then,_ she says, and nick wonders if he passed some sort of test.

He learns a lot from her, and thinks about will constantly. She finds his secret and his shame by mistake, reaching around him to pull him deeper in and grazing his entrance. He comes hard, gaze too open as he looks in her eyes.

She takes a day, and he’s afraid he’s ruined everything, but when she comes back it’s with the verve she brings to everything. Well, the verve and a smooth piece of wood.

 _I mean, it’s served me well_ , she says, and nick thinks about how this is illegal too, but he can still walk arm in arm in the park with his wife. It’s with a deep bitter sense of injustice that he agrees to revisit what he needs as if he’s a stranger to it for the first time.

He knew needing to prep would be a foreign concept to her, but he didn’t expect it would take this long. He finds the mishaps needless and mortifying on a basic level. This is something he’s good at, and watching bea frown over another avoidable mistake is incredible to him. He pretends to discover his supplies, and the mishaps stop. His wife is into their most illegal of married practices, he finds, and she never takes him in a way that will ever would have, and he finds that that’s enough. He comes, though, more than he did before, and something begins to shift in her eyes when she sees how he regards her when she wears it. Some subtle shifting sense of pride, and before he knows it she is almost a man when she drives into him. She never pins her hair, and the brush of it is all that tethers him from falling into the idea that this is one of the youths in a life feeling more unattainable by the day.

Like her other revelation, she finds that lightning-flint spot in him by chance, and as she does, she doesn’t do anything by halves. She milks him dry and he writhes and bucks under her and thinks about driving into her, and wonders what it would be like if both she and will were here. He thinks about will while speared on the comparative narrowness of the length of wood, and when the spar doesn’t bend in the way flesh does, he bucks harder against it. In the space between dream and spoken word he comes harder than he has in a long time. And his wife, his lover, his jean d’arc, smiles down at him from above her slicked spur. And he thinks, I could have been happy, once. In his dreams, the beds of his wife and of will blur into a oneness, and he wakes in tears. He murmurs to his wife, _I miss him¸_ and she mutters back, _I know._ The time stretches on. He approaches the age will was when nick met him, and will watches one of his plays on that birthday, catches his eyes, and before he knows it is being slammed against the wall of a dressing room and thanking god, feverishly, that earlier he had slept with his wife. Will drives into him and it’s like he never left, only now will doesn’t wait for him. The harshness and severity has grown, and even in wringing nick to delirious orgasm, there’s no tenderness in it, and certainly not in how will follows. Will hardly looks at him after, and nick leaves, feeling completely confused. Bea is awake, and he cries on her shoulder for a long time, old rotten feelings flooding out like a dammed river breaking after a storm. She holds him and when they go to bed, nick tells her _i love you_ and absolutely means it.

The next few months are hard. With will having remembered his existence, avoiding his influence becomes a lot more complex. Playwriting is hard, and will is a star, and nick and bea and nigel totter closer to privation day by day. But there is nothing for nick in trying to restart even a friendship with will after all this time. There is no inch of the man that hasn’t been made utterly impervious. Nick spends a lot of time feeling small and rereading sonnets, trying to remember that he is the one that will wrote them for. He hears the performance of _shall I compare thee_ and flees, furious and nauseous, and can’t separate his grief from his anger no matter how hard he tries. There is nothing for it, so he continues as he is.


	3. Postscript: Will

Will is older than he was, and doesn’t protest when nick treats him with a gentleness he perhaps feels will doesn’t deserve. When he guides will to that deep-bent prone, his spine bends readily, and nick feels a stab of… something… at the thought of other men and women bending him into this position over the years. Something hot and flowing like water has him tracing the divots of will’s spine like he’s caressing a religious score. Will shudders under him, head tilting in that old familiar way to expose his neck and ear, a new mode of invitation coming in the vestments of the old. Nick touches him at the cleft and finds him warm and slick and empty, and while there is a stab through him to just begin, he finds himself instead reaching within and beckoning, finding pressure on the rim with his fingertips and teasing it. There’s a surprised and punched-out laugh from up above him, and a once-again dumbstruck will looks over his shoulder at nick.

 _What are you doing_?

Nick shrugs. _Making you feel good however I can._

Will doesn’t end up having the patience for very much of what nick is trying, but when nick lines up how he remembers and drives down into will and feels him stiffen through sense and memory, something slots into place. Gravity inverting on the keystone in the archway and finding that still everything holds its place. Nick sets up a pace will will like, measuring his paces by will’s breaths and stopping just shy of overwhelm to offer stimulation in other ways. Will waxes desperate and praise begins to be choked out from between gritted teeth. The final time nick teases that first orgasm, that wall of brilliant silence breaks as will wails, and the only word on the other side of it is a litany of nick’s own name.


End file.
